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Listening to Downtempo on a Sunday Evening
The profound feeling
that everything’s wrong
and nothing is wrong.
That everything’s ***
and everything’s so damned
beautiful, at the smallest shift
of a foot.
And the immensity of this
tickles the fingertip, a salted crumb
you just gotta lick.
All the more incredible-
it doesn’t matter
which way you read your lines.
Which way do you read your lines?
Who enshrined top to bottom
with the bottom’s up of a whisky cup?
It’s gotta come from a feeling
to touch the beauty of it,
communicate the grace within
the whole decaying lot of it, tearing
down alters to venerate what remains.
How do you measure your gains
as the corners of your mouth
become slowly etched
with the fattening burden
of Serenity?
Copyright ©
Erin Beckett
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